Chapter 4 - The Rat in the Corner
Deprived of his fortune, his status, and his home, Everett Vance did what every cornered predator does: he looked for a dirtier way to fight.
Three days after the Hudson Yards disaster, Everett and his legal team—a cheap, aggressive tabloid attorney named Saul Bernstein—held an emergency press conference in a rented hotel room near Times Square.
I watched the live broadcast from my private office at Blackstone Crest Holdings.
On the screen, Everett sat in a cheap suit, flanked by Patricia—who had been bailed out by a distant cousin—and Madison.
“My client, Everett Vance, was the victim of a pre-planned, malicious corporate coup,” Bernstein declared into a wall of microphones. “Evelyn Hart utilized fraudulent trusts and coercion to strip Mr. Vance of his rightful assets. Furthermore, we are filing a two-hundred-million-dollar lawsuit for marital fraud, emotional distress, and corporate slander!”
Everett took the microphone, putting on an award-worthy performance of a betrayed, heartbroken husband.
“I spent ten years building Vance Capital from a garage startup into a multi-billion-dollar enterprise,” Everett lied smoothly, squeezing out a single tear for the cameras. “Evelyn was my wife. I trusted her with my estate planning. But behind my back, she funneled corporate profits into shell companies, manipulating the board to turn them against me. She used my mother’s temporary lapse in judgment and a simple accidental drink spill at a party as an excuse to ruin my life!”
Patricia chimed in, weeping dramatically into a tissue. “She abused my family! She left an elderly woman in a cold jail cell overnight! She is a monster!”
Grant stood beside my desk, his arms crossed over his chest. “Should I issue a corporate statement denying the allegations, Miss Hart?”
“No,” I smiled softly, swirling the coffee in my mug. “Denials look defensive. Let them dig their grave deeper. Did the forensic accountants finish reviewing the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands?”
“They finished two hours ago,” Grant replied, pulling a red folder from his jacket. “And it’s far worse than we anticipated. Everett didn't just embezzle four point two million for Madison’s penthouse. Over the last three years, he shifted twenty-four million dollars from Blackstone’s employee pension fund into an unregistered account in Grand Cayman.”
My eyes narrowed. Embezzling corporate funds was one thing; stealing from the retired employees who had dedicated their lives to the firm was a line that crossed into pure evil.
“Does he know we found the Cayman account?” I asked.
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“Not yet,” Grant said with a dark grin. “He thinks those funds are completely hidden from US jurisdiction. He’s planning to use that money to fund his legal war against you.”
“Call the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I commanded coldly. “Ask for Special Agent Miller in the Financial Crimes Division. Tell him I have a present for him, wrapped in a bow.”
